


"you belong to me"

by cjscullyjanewaygay (csiwholocked33), talkwordytome



Series: songbird [4]
Category: Ocean's 8 (2018), Ocean's Eleven Trilogy (Movies)
Genre: Daphne is a sweet precious anxious babe and I love her, Domestic Fluff, F/F, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Team Mom Tammy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-31
Updated: 2018-07-31
Packaged: 2019-06-18 21:31:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15495111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/csiwholocked33/pseuds/cjscullyjanewaygay, https://archiveofourown.org/users/talkwordytome/pseuds/talkwordytome
Summary: Button up your overcoatWhen the wind is freeOh, take good care of yourselfYou belong to me--“Button Up Your Overcoat” by Ruth Ettingor, four times Tammy is Team Mom, & the one time she needs a little extra care.





	"you belong to me"

**Author's Note:**

> Hi friends! This is the latest edition to the "songbird" fic series! This is just a sweet, fluffy bit of coziness that my girlfriend & I co-wrote, & I'm happy with how it turned out. Basically--Tammy is the resident mom of the _Ocean's 8_ ladies  & she happily takes care of them, until the day comes where she needs some care taking in return. 
> 
> I wrote this imagining that it fits into the same universe as "as it's called again", and you're welcome to read it that way too. Or not! *Rebecca Bunch voice* Whateva floats ya boat.
> 
> It's rated Teen for language & some references to drinking. Enjoy!

**1.**  


Tammy’s official designation on the heist team may be Fence, but her unofficial and arguably more important one is that of Team Mom. It is Debbie, naturally, who comes up with the nickname; one afternoon Rose complains of a headache, and Tammy promptly dumps a veritable pharmacy out of her purse. “I have Advil, Tylenol, regular Excedrin,” she lists, “Excedrin migraine, oh, and DayQuil if the headache is from a cold.”

“Jesus, Tammy,” Debbie interrupts, equal parts amused and bewildered. “I didn’t know you moonlighted as a nurse.”

“Well, when you have kids you have to be prepared for anything,” Tammy retorts, at which point Lou tells her that she really is such a mom, and then Debbie calls her Team Mom, and then all of them are calling her Team Mom, and somehow it sticks. {This may be in part because even Nine Ball immediately adopts the moniker, and up until then she had referred to Tammy only as “the other white lady.”}

Tammy rolls her eyes at first, but it doesn’t really bother her. She genuinely _likes_ that she can take care of people, even here, as she’s missing her kids. She’s good at it in ways that no one else on the team really is, and she’s pleased that she has something that distinguishes her as a unique and necessary member of the “heist squad” {Constance’s idea, which doesn’t catch on nearly as well as “Team Mom”}.

In the weeks they spend holed up together at the loft, her caretaker skills come in handy more than once. One such time was the afternoon when a damp Lou limps in through the front door of the loft, jeans ripped and thigh bleeding, biting her lip as she tries not to cry.

Tammy is the only one there--Debbie is at the Met doing reconnaissance with Nine Ball and Constance, Rose is at a fitting with Daphne Kluger, and Amita is helping her mother at the store--and she immediately springs into action. “What did you do?” she asks, exasperated but fond.

Lou sits down gingerly on the couch. “Fell off my bike,” she says. “Took a curve too fast.”

“I told you not to go out riding in the rain,” Tammy tuts, checking Lou’s body for other signs of injury. “The road gets so slick. Do you think you broke anything?”

Lou shakes her head. “The whole side of my body hurts from where I fell, but no, nothing’s broken. I was fine enough to ride the rest of the way home,” she says.

Tammy purses her lips. Lou’s face reminds her oddly of the way her son Caleb once looked up at her after she found him, burnt-fingered and tearful, playing with matches in the backyard: defiant but fragile, wide-eyed and needful with regret.

“You should’ve called me,” she says sternly, but her heart softens. “I would’ve picked you up.”

Lou shrugs. “Didn’t want to put you out,” she says, exhaling sharply as Tammy gently prods at the skin around the abrasion on her thigh.

She examines it for a few minutes, sighs, then delivers her pronouncement. “You won’t need stitches, thankfully… but we do need to clean it up and wrap it so it doesn’t get infected.” She stands. “Wait here,” she instructs. “I’ll be back. Oh, and take off your pants.”

“Mrs. Robinson, you’re trying to seduce me.”

“Shut it, you. Also, we’re the same age!”

“That seems wrong; you have a minivan and you own a home, and you have a husband and _children,_ for fuck’s sake.”

Tammy chuckles, rolls her eyes, and tries not to think about the way she left things at said home with said husband.

When she returns moments later, she is carrying the massive first aid kit she had insisted they keep in the loft {“When you’re running a con, injuries are almost inevitable,” she’d explained, “and injuries will fuck up a job so fast your head spins if you aren’t equipped to deal with them.”}. She pulls out a bottle of peroxide, a handful of cotton balls, a roll of white gauze, a pair of scissors, and some medical tape. As she dabs some peroxide onto the cotton balls, she warns Lou, “This is going to sting.”

Lou huffs, “I’m not a child, Tammy.” But she does hiss when the liquid makes contact with her injured thigh, and Tammy grabs her hand without a second thought. 

Tammy cuts a long sheet of gauze from the roll and carefully wraps it around Lou’s pale leg. “Let me know if it’s too tight, okay?” she says, and Lou nods. “You’ll want to change it twice a day until the wound starts to scab over, and then you’ll only need to change it once a day. You should also stay alert for any signs of infection--bad color, weird smell, things like that--in which case you’d have to see a _real_ doctor for antibiotics.” 

Satisfied with her handiwork, Tammy tapes off the end of the gauze and pats it ever so gently, smiling. “There,” she says happily. “Good as new.” Lou says nothing, but the pain and the tears are gone from her ocean-blue eyes.

Tammy helps Lou lean back against the couch and props her bad leg up on a stack of pillows, covers her in a blanket, and makes sure the TV remote is easily within her reach. “Do you need anything else?” she asks. “Water, a snack, maybe an adult beverage?”

Lou laughs but shakes her head. “I’m alright for now,” she says tiredly. “You know, Tammy, you’re really good at this.”

Tammy beams and kisses Lou’s forehead. “I’m Team Mom,” she says simply. “It’s what I do.”

****

**2.  
** It is several months after the very successful Met Gala heist, and Tammy and her two children--Caleb and Zoe--have more or less moved into the loft. She hadn’t meant to stay long term, just until she found a divorce lawyer and a nice apartment close to a good school, but Lou and Debbie didn’t seem to mind having her around, and Caleb and Zoe adore their new aunts, and she can’t stand the thought of uprooting them again. So they stay. As far as unconventional arrangements go, it’s a pretty lovely one.

One weekend, Tammy has the place to herself--Lou and Debbie are in Vegas, and the kids are with their father--and she has just settled in with a glass of wine and a trashy romance novel when she hears the front door open.

Her heartbeat quickens. She grabs her book tightly, wondering if she should go for the pistol she knows Lou keeps under a loose floorboard behind the bar. “Who’s there?” she demands.  


She hears quiet footsteps, and then Amita appears, face swollen and eyes puffy. “Oh,” she says. “I didn’t think anyone else would be here.”

Tammy drops her book. “And _I_ thought _you_ were in Paris,” she says, her body relaxing. “Why are you back already? Where’s Alexander?”

Amita laughs humorlessly. “Alexander is history,” she says, “and so is Paris.”

“Oh, honey,” Tammy says, just as Amita puts her face in her hands and begins to cry. “I’m so sorry. Come here.”

Tammy leads Amita over to the couch and immediately hands her the glass of wine she’d poured for herself. “This calls for copious amounts of chocolate, pronto,” Tammy says seriously. “I’ll be right back; you get snuggled in. Turn on whatever sappy rom-com you want. Lou and Debbie have a FireStick; I have no fucking idea how to work it, but apparently you can watch Netflix with it, and there’s a decent chance you understand technology better than I do.” Amita chuckles through her tears, giving a small half-smile as she wipes at her eyes.

When Tammy returns, it is with a fresh wine glass, a huge bottle of moscato, and a family-sized bag of little square Dove chocolates, the kind with encouraging messages on the inside of every wrapper. She always keeps them around in case of a shitty day, but she can tell already that tonight will require the whole rest of the bag. “Ooh, _Pretty Woman_ ,” Tammy says when she sees the movie Amita picked. “Excellent choice. Young Richard Gere; so dreamy.”

“And Julia Roberts isn’t bad either,” Amita says, almost smiling.

Tammy laughs. “Touche.” Maybe Amita is finally ready to admit that men almost categorically suck and join the rest of the heist squad {okay, so it didn’t catch on out loud, but Tammy always uses it in her head to refer to the eight of them} in their varying levels of ambiguous gayness.

 _Notting Hill_ follows _Pretty Woman_ , and _My Best Friend’s Wedding_ comes after those two, because the theme of the night is Julia Roberts, apparently. They drink their way through the entire bottle of wine and eat their way through the chocolate. By the time the credits for _My Best Friend’s Wedding_ are rolling, Tammy and Amita are drunk and weepy and compulsively reassuring each other that they’re beautiful and deserve so much better than the shitty men they’ve been with.

Amita falls asleep curled up in Tammy’s lap. “Thank you for all of this, Mom,” Amita whispers, just as her eyes are closing. “I love you.”  


“Love you too, Amita.” Tammy smooths her friend’s hair and leans back, allowing herself to doze off, too.

 **3.**  
Tammy flicks a switch and is unsurprised to find that, as usual, she is not alone in the loft’s new industrial-luxe kitchen.

“Ughhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.”

Tammy raises her eyebrows. “Good morning to you, too, Constance.”

Constance doesn’t lift her face, which is pressed into the countertop. “Mmmsssfffff,” she mumbles.

Tammy laughs. “Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that.”

“I hate tequila,” Constance says, voice muffled by granite. “Tequila is evil. Tequila should die.”

“I take it your night involved tequila to some capacity?” Tammy asks, pouring Constance a cup of coffee.

Constance just groans. Tammy smirks. “I’ll assume that’s a yes,” she says.

Hair mussed and eyes heavy-lidded, the young woman sits up and takes a long drink of coffee. “Can you die from being hungover?” she asks.

“I’ve never heard of that happening before, but I suppose there’s a first time for everything.”

“Thanks, that’s reassuring,” Constance mutters darkly.

“Sorry,” Tammy says, smiling sheepishly, not really sounding that sorry at all. “Here, let me fix you breakfast to make up for it.”

Constance groans again. “If I eat anything I’m just gonna hurl all over this kitchen,” she warns. 

“A lovely visual, Constance; thank you.”  


“I try, Tim-Tam. I try.” 

Constance’s head returns to the countertop as Tammy bustles around the kitchen. She listens as cabinets open and close, as pots and pans clang together, as water boils, as Tammy sings Johnny Cash under her breath. “You’re a little bit country,” Constance mumbles.

Tammy laughs. “And a little bit rock and roll,” she says.

Some time later--Constance has no idea how much later; her hungover brain is incapable of math--Tammy places a steaming, sweetly fragrant bowl in front of her. Constance sits up, sniffing it warily. “What is it?” she asks.

“Peanut butter and banana oatmeal,” Tammy says. “I make it for Caleb and Zoe when they’re under the weather. It’s gentle on your stomach, plus the peanut butter has a lot of protein and the bananas have potassium.” She smiles a little, unassuming but proud. “Just call it a lucky guess, but I figured you’re a-lot-to-very dehydrated.”

Constance snorts and then takes a tentative bite of the oatmeal. She closes her eyes and groans a third time, but this time it sounds more like a contented groan.

“Fuck _me_! This is good,” Constance says. “Thanks, Tamella.”

She has told Constance more than once that “Tamella” is not her name, nor is “Tamitha” or “Tambigail,” but the varied and creative name-butcherings continue, so she takes it as a sign of affection.

Tammy {Tamara, for the record} smiles, pleased with herself. “I’m glad I could help.”

 **4.**  
“They’re...going...to...hate… _me_!”

“Sweetie, that’s patently untrue--”

“No it’s _not_!” Daphne is sobbing so violently that Tammy is worried she may pass out. “They’re going to _hate_ me, and _hate_ the movie, and tomorrow there’s going to be a fucking picture of me in fucking _US Weekly_ because I looked _fat_ in my dress, and--”

“Honey, whoa, please, please calm down,” Tammy says, rubbing Daphne’s back. “I know premieres are difficult for you, really I do, but you’re going to make yourself sick if you keep crying this hard. Please try to breathe. Can you do that?”

Daphne manages a few gulpy inhale-exhales before dissolving into renewed sobs. Tammy considers this to be great progress, and calmly helps Daphne sit down on the bed. “Everything is going to be fine,” she soothes. “You’re going to go and get your hair and makeup done, and then Rose is going to dress you in the gorgeous gown she made to custom fit your gorgeous self, and you are going to look like an absolute _bombshell_ , Kluger.” 

She tucks a lock of glossy brown hair behind Daphne’s ear and smiles, making sure that the giant doe-eyes on the tear-streaked face in her hands are meeting hers. “The press is going to adore you, because they always do. The movie will probably be a _huge_ success, and even if it’s not, you have plenty of other gifts you can fall back on.” Tammy winks, and Daphne manages a hiccoughing laugh.

Daphne sniffles and Tammy hands her a bouquet of tissues. She blows her nose and sighs. “It’s so hard sometimes,” she whispers, and Tammy nods. “I know that’s such a stupid, selfish thing to say, because I’m doing exactly what I want to do, and I get paid _a lot_ to do it, but--”

“But being constantly photographed and scrutinized can get stressful, I imagine,” Tammy offers gently. “No matter how much you like your job, or how good the money is.”

“It’s like…” Daphne thinks for a moment, “it’s like everyone wants to see me fail, like, really spectacularly, just as much as they want to see me do something well. Does that make sense?”

“It makes a lot of sense,” Tammy affirms. “I’m sorry it’s hard, sweets.”

Daphne shrugs, wipes her eyes, and blows her nose one more time with a rather indelicate honking sound. “It’s okay,” she says. “It’s not your fault.”

“I’m still sorry,” Tammy says, kissing Daphne on her temple. “I wish I could do something to make it easier for you.”

Daphne smiles, small but genuine. “Helping me come down from a panic attack is plenty, actually,” she says, then awkwardly clears her throat. “But can we, uhm, please keep this between us?” she says, unmistakably vulnerable. “Like, not tell the rest of the team? I mean, Rose knows, but she’s special, and--”

“Daph,” Tammy says, cutting off the younger woman with a quick, tight hug, “don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me.”

Daphne blushes slightly, but her face lights up with a bright, authentic smile.

 **5.**  
It’s Saturday morning, though Tammy doesn’t know what time specifically; she only knows that it’s late enough for creamy white sunshine to be streaming in through her curtains. It dawns on her that she has no idea if Caleb and Zoe are awake, or--if they are--how long they’ve been awake, or if they need breakfast, or if they’re worried and confused as to why _she_ isn’t awake yet. Ordinarily all of those things would be cause for greater concern, but at the moment all Tammy can really focus on is the sudden and unhappy realization that her head is horrendously thick and her throat is very, very sore.

“Fuck,” she murmurs hoarsely.

With no small amount of effort, Tammy manages to drag herself out of bed, wash her face, and get dressed. She throws a heavy sweatshirt on over her well-worn OBX tee, along with a pair of wool socks. She can’t seem to get warm, and her nose won't stop running, so she also shoves a handful of tissues in her jeans’ pockets for safekeeping. She’s made it into the kitchen and turned on the burner so she can fix scrambled eggs when Debbie walks into the room, takes one look at her, and promptly says, “I thought so.”

Tammy sniffles and stares at Debbie with sleepy confusion. “What?” she croaks.

“You’re sick.”

Tammy blows her nose and tries not to visibly shiver. “It’s just a cold,” she says, searching in the cabinets for a frying pan. “I’ll be fine.”

Caleb skids into the kitchen, closely followed by Zoe, Lou, Daphne, Rose, and a half-awake Nine Ball. “I told you she was sick!” Caleb shouts triumphantly, and Tammy winces.

“Caleb, baby,” she says weakly, “can you please try to keep your voice down? Mommy isn’t feeling very good.”

“I told you she was,” Caleb repeats in an equally loud stage whisper. “She only sleeps real late when she’s sick.”

“Poor Mommy,” Zoe coos. “We will help you feel better, okay?”

Lou hoists the five-year-old into her arms and smiles at her. “Yes we will, Zo-Zo,” she says, ruffling Zoe’s baby-fine blonde hair. It’s been a surprise to everyone how well Lou has taken to babysitting Tammy’s kids, and her particular affection for Zoe makes Tammy’s heart warm.

At this point, Debbie interrupts. Turning off the burner with a quick snap of the dial, she gives Tammy a decidedly bossy look. “Alright, sickie,” she says. “I think it’s time for you to go back to bed.”

Tammy shakes her head and stubbornly turns the stove back on. “I can’t,” she insists. “I need to go grocery shopping, and Caleb and Zoe have swim lessons later this afternoon, and--”

Sighing loudly, Nine Ball turns off the burner this time, grabs Tammy’s shoulders, and leads her out of the kitchen. “Girl,” she says, “we got this. Chill. Go rest; you high-key look like a zombie.”

And Tammy can’t really find it in herself to put up much of a fight, especially once she’s under the covers and her head is on her pillow because, oh _fuck_ , this feels nice. Daphne and Rose help her get settled; they tuck her in and arrange a box of tissues, a glass of water, and some cough drops on her bedside table. Debbie lights a candle, and though she can barely smell it through her stuffed-up nose, she can imagine the calming aroma of the lavender and is comforted by the subtle flicker of the flame.

“How are you feeling, love?” Rose asks, her lilting Irish accent full of warm concern.

Tammy sneezes. “Awful,” she says, leaning fully into the sickling routine now that the universe has granted her its permission. “I can’t breathe; my head and chest feel like they’re full of cement.”

“You sound like it, poor thing,” Daphne says, pouting as she runs a cool hand through Tammy’s hair, and Tammy has to fight off a sudden, ridiculous impulse to cry. 

Debbie comes back into the room holding a steaming mug of tea, followed by Lou, who is carrying an armful of extra fleece blankets. “You are under strict doctor’s orders to not leave this bed today,” Debbie says firmly. “Got it?”

Tammy laughs, wincing slightly when that hurts her sore throat. “Yes, ma’am,” she says.

Lou drapes the extra blankets on top of the bed, and all of the women kiss Tammy gently, whispering small comforts as they go. Caleb and Zoe bring her a few of their stuffed animals and promise that they’ll be good for their aunts, and then they disappear down the hallway after Lou. As exhaustion overtakes her, Tammy hears someone--Debbie? Daphne?--say, “Sleep. We’ll all be here when you wake up.” 

This is all she needs. Her eyes drift shut, and she does sleep, more peacefully than she has in years, buoyed by the knowledge that she is at last safe, warm, and so very loved.

**Author's Note:**

> I know that my personal head canon is that Tammy left her husband because he was abusive, & I did a lot of research & found out that if a partner was never violent towards the children, it's not uncommon for them to get partial custody and/or visitation rights. Just so no one worries about the like repercussions of Tammy's kids spending time with their dad {even in this fully fictional world}.


End file.
